The Game of Kings (60 page)

He got up slowly, a man not incapable of a moment of insight. But he said only, “Thank you. I’m glad you were with her,” and walked out, without looking back.

Kate smoothed the crumpled sheets with gentle fingers, and spoke aloud. “He was very nearly good enough for you, that one,” she said; and drawing the yellow curtains, shut out the sun.

*  *  *

Since he was quite a young man, Gideon Somerville had grown used to the role of bystander. Other men—less intelligent, shallower men—plunged into a tidal race of action, conflict, argument and sinewy bravado. But within Gideon something shrank from pressing his intangible opinions, his doubt-ridden intellect and humane heart on the destinies of others as helpless as himself. He knew the ache of indecision too well.

Today, brought to disturbing acquaintance with new minds, he weighed them up, watching with his clear eyes, and tacitly stepped aside. There was no tangle here that he or any stranger could undo. Flaw Valleys was no prison. His staff could break out if he incited them: he could send a man to Hexham for help if he tried; but he had no wish to try. He asked quietly that his wife shouldn’t be asked to be present; he made sure that Philippa wasn’t left unwatched or frightened; and he brought to Lord Culter a pair of matched rapiers and two daggers.

As the weapons arrived, Tom Erskine came into the hall and took charge.

The fact that he did so sobered them all. In a year he had become used to command: his father, after all, was within the most intimate circle of the Court; his grandfather was Archibald, second Duke of Argyll; his grandmother and his sister had borne sons to two kings. He came now into the room, collected everyone’s attention and said quietly, “Richard: this is a warning. This man is a prisoner of the Crown and has to answer to the Crown for his crimes. To do what you mean to do demands strong cause. Do you have it?”

“You
ask me that? Yes. Of course I have.”

“To kill this man in a private house for a private quarrel in foreign territory may lead you to be charged with his murder. Could you refute that?”

“Yes,” said Richard. “As you very well know. At this moment he’s carrying papers that’d mean the end of us as a nation and very likely the death of the Queen if they reached Hexham.”

Lymond, who had been staring out of one of the tall windows and drumming with his finger tips on the shutter, came to life and spun around. “That isn’t true!”

Erskine kicked something at his feet. “Is that your baggage roll?”

“Yes.”

“And this, which was in it, is your letter?”

Without speaking, Lymond accepted the papers Erskine held out—papers which, as Erskine and Culter both knew, gave in detail the plans for the Queen’s escape to France.

He took a long time over the pages, his eyes staying a moment, unseeing at the foot; then he returned them. “Well?” said Erskine.

“The man with me: Acheson. Have you questioned him about these?” asked Lymond. “He’s locked up belowstairs.”

“Yes,” said Erskine. “We’ve seen him. He was carrying two letters
from George Douglas about the safety of his sons. That’s all he’s got, and that’s all he knows about.”

“I see,” said Lymond slowly. “The obvious answer, of course. The classic escape from this kind of situation, as you know, is for each party to blame the other. In which case, I assume for safety’s sake that you’ll take him back home with you? I should strongly advise you not to let him out of your sight.”

“He put the papers in your baggage?” said Richard helpfully.

“Something like that. But let’s put it at its lowest. He knows the contents of the papers. So for God’s sake don’t admit him to your social circle just because you’re happy he’s given you a hold over me.”

“And has he?” asked Erskine—and misinterpreting the ensuing pause added, “Well?”

“Well enough for everybody’s purpose,” said Lymond without passion. “One crime more or less isn’t going to deter Richard now.”

It was treated as an admission; there was a murmur of abuse and contempt, irresistibly, and someone spat. Erskine turned his back on the younger man and addressed Richard again. “That being so, you have a public reason for bringing this man to trial here and now. You also have private reasons?”

“Yes.”

“What are they?”

Richard was silent, his jaw doggedly set.

“State them,” said Erskine sharply. “If this is to be trial by combat, the defendant has a right to hear your complaint.”

Lord Culter said, speaking very fast in a low voice, “He has degraded our family name … committed theft and arson and attacked a guest beneath my roof. He has tried to take my life repeatedly.”

Lymond made a sudden movement, apparently involuntarily, and the gesture restored Richard’s voice. He said quite clearly, “He has dishonoured my wife and killed my only son.”

Nobody spoke. Between man and man the sunlight hesitated, sparkling, and sank to the floor with the languishing dust. Gideon bit his lip. “What have you to reply?” asked Erskine.

Lymond’s voice was undramatic and his face unreadable. “Your choice is between executing me here or in Edinburgh. I will not fight.”

Erskine had begun to say, “Do you admit, then …” when Richard interrupted. “Wait a moment. Let us all have it clear. If one of
us fails to fight, it means he admits he has no honour to defend?”

“That is the usual interpretation.”

“In other words, that he admits the truth of the charges against him. Do you freely admit to treason, brother? To murder and rape? Fratricide as near as may be?”

“I admit none of it.”

“Yet you won’t fight. You admit your—connection with my wife?”

“No!”

“And yet you won’t fight. You admit that you deceived that girl upstairs into becoming your blind and complaisant mistress, and then killed her when you tired of it?”

Erskine’s voice clashed harshly with Lymond’s. The Master’s prevailed through sheer bite. “You uncivilized maniac: that’s a damnable lever to use.”

“If you won’t defend your story, we must assume it’s true.”

“You can assume,” said Lymond, stirred at last into straight speaking, “that I’m trying to prevent you from getting your bloody throat cut; that’s all.”

“You imagine,” said Richard, his voice rocketing between prayerful hope and excitement, “that you could fight me and survive?”

“I could see you drop dead this minute from paralysis of the brain cells and burst into uninhibited applause. I had nothing to do with Christian Stewart’s death, nor did I touch her when she was alive. I’ll defend that, damn you, against anybody. Set up your tin-foil trial and try and prove otherwise if you can.”

Richard, flexing the fingers of his right hand, raised his eyebrows at Tom Erskine. “You heard? He’s going to fight,” he said gently.

Set below the music room, the hall at Flaw Valleys was lit by the same pattern of tall windows along one of its long sides; on the other, double doors at its centre made the only entrance. The shining wood floor had been cleared of furniture and the spectators stood behind rope at either end: Gideon to the right, with six of his own men, and Erskine and Culter’s men to the left. Within the arena, Lymond had resumed his stance by one of the window seats. Both Culter and Tom Erskine were missing.

Conversation was low. Gideon wondered what his wife was doing. He thought of the music he had heard that afternoon, and of his conversations with Lymond, and of something Lymond had said to
Kate. “If it’s going to happen, it won’t happen here.” But how much, indeed, could flesh and blood stand?

A table was put in the centre of the room. On it, Gideon could see the four weapons, four slots of blue; and beside them a heavy book: a volume of the Four Gospels impressed with tarnished gold leaf, which had belonged to Kate’s mother. Culter came in and stood by it; then Erskine, and the doors were shut.

Erskine stood just in front of the carved oak. He was still without colour, but composed and firmly in authority. He looked at his audience to the right and left extremities of the room, to Lymond by the window and to Richard in front of him and said quietly, “You know the purpose of this gathering. We are about to hold trial by combat between these two men here before you, and I take to myself the authority to regulate and to take oath as if this were done in Scotland, in champ clos. Will you both abide by that?” He waited for their assent, and then in a grave, clear voice began to administer the oath.

“You, Richard, third Baron Crawford of Culter, laying your right hand upon this Book, must swear the truth of your complaint in all its points, from the first to the last charge in it, and that it is your intent to prove the contents to be true, so aid you God.”

“So aid me God.”

Culter’s voice was steady. Erskine proffered the book again. “Richard Crawford, third Baron Culter, laying your hand on the Book this second time, you must swear that you stand no otherwise appointed than by me, with a rapier and a dagger; that you have not any other pointed instrument or engine, small or great; no stone or herb of virtue, no charm, experiment or other enchantment by whose power you believe you may the easier overcome your adversary who here shall oppose you in his defence; and that you trust not in anything more than in God, your body, and the merits of your quarrel; so God you help.”

Richard’s voice, quietly taking the oath, and the pad of his stockinged feet as he stepped back broke the silence. There was a tightening of the figure by the window and Erskine’s even voice, slightly raised.

“Francis Crawford of Lymond, Master of Culter,” After the briefest hesitation, the man came to him. “Laying your right hand on this Book …”

Erskine’s eyes this time were intent. He read the oath still with his voice a little raised, like a challenge. At the words, “So aid me
God,” repeated without emphasis, a ripple of comment made itself heard in the quiet room. Erskine ignored it. “Lord Culter. Please come forward.”

Richard moved this time after a distinct pause and took his place before Erskine at his brother’s side. Erskine captured his eyes and held them. “Take ye each other by the right hand, laying the left on the Book.”

“He won’t. Damned if I blame him,” said the man next to Gideon. Richard was grinning. “I have no right hand, Mr. Erskine.”

His temporary Constable neither argued nor pleaded. He simply observed, “I have the power to make that true, as you should know. Face your opponent and take him by the right hand.”

It was Lymond who made the move. Richard touched the proffered hand with the tips of his fingers, his left hand on the book between them so that their joined arms made the required cross, and his eyes were anarchists in the community of his hands. “I charge you,” began Erskine solemnly:

“I charge you by your faith and your right hand, which is enclosed in the hand of your adversary, that you use your power and make use of all advantages to make good your appeal, to force him to a rendering of himself unto your hands, or with your own hand to kill him before you part from this room, and so God you help.”

They swore, and the blades were lifted from the table: the thin tempered rapiers with steel quillons and counterguard; the daggers with their thick, double-edged blades, twelve inches long. Richard received his weapons: sword for the right hand and dagger for the left; and then Lymond. The Gospel was removed; the table taken away. Erskine, his eyes travelling over every face, Scots and English, gave the familiar address.

“We charge and command every man that he approach not nor that he speak, make any noise, give any sign nor by his countenance or otherwise direct either of these parties to take any advantages the one upon the other, upon pain of life and member.”

He paused, looking up at the brilliant windows and Kate’s bright chestnuts beyond. A goose, frowning, marched across the grass. Inside, the sun prinked and patterned the floor, aureoled the two white-shirted men, standing widely separated, and fell upon itself, reflected in the steel, with redoubled kisses.

“The day is far passed,” said Erskine, making the herald’s formal pronouncement. “Let them go, let them go, to do their endeavour.”

To do his endeavour, Lymond waited in the hall of Flaw Valleys, a slender, feral figure, limbs relaxed, eyes wide awake and steel in either scarred hand; and watched his brother advance. “Quicker, Richard. We’re meant to explode into action.” The voice was ribald.

Face to face with him, Lord Culter answered softly. “There’s no hurry.” And there was a flicker of movement and a click, as Lymond parried, sliding sideways to miss the twinkle of the short blade. Richard waited. He was indeed in no hurry.

“Since we are here,” said Lymond conversationally, “why not pronounce something appropriate? ‘Eh bien, dansez maintenant’? Or, ‘We came both out of one womb: so shall we lie both in one pit’? And there’s ‘Brother, whi art thou so to me in ire?’—the killing of Abel, my dear: a mine of suitable commentary.… Come along,” said the playful, savage voice. “Let us fight with sugar in our mouths like the litigating tailors of V—” And he ducked.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” said Lymond. “Nature works in the … shortest way possible. If you really want to reach my guts …”

The sun was on his face. “I do,” said Richard. “But not immediately.” And this time he thrust, traversed and lunged again, the dagger poised and intent, waiting for Lymond to duck out of the sunlight.

He did exactly that. Richard, smiling faintly, whipped up his left arm and halted, blinded in the act by the light from his brother’s blade. “… try lunging in a straight line,” ended Lymond, serene and safe. “Useful thing, sunlight. Play up, master swordman. You’re rolling about like a pear in a pottle.” They drifted apart again.

His intention was obvious. Gideon was not inspired to laugh, but some of his men were, and he saw that Culter was aware of it. Lymond was of course behaving atrociously: he seemed prepared to make any sort of fool of himself rather than allow his brother near. Culter, by no means playing seriously himself as yet, was testing the other man’s strength, or trying to. The Master eddied around the floor, talking.

If Richard had meant to make his power felt gradually, he was forced to drop the idea. Unless he was to be a laughingstock, he must force Lymond to fight; and his brother, as well as Erskine and Gideon and the waiting men, read the sudden purpose in his face. But Lymond got in first.